We denied ourselves everything, just so our daughters could have a better life. How could my own children treat me with such indifference?
When our girls grew up, my late husband, Victor, and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We thought, *Now life will ease up a little*. But it didn’t—instead, one burden simply replaced another. The girls’ childhood was marked by endless sacrifice. We both worked at the local factory—me as a packer, him as a machinist. The wages barely covered food and clothes.
I still remember the rush of joy when I managed to buy them something nice, so they wouldn’t feel lesser than their peers. We never went on holiday, our furniture stayed worn, our shoes scuffed—all so they could have the best. They attended an ordinary school, but they always looked like princesses. And we were proud of that. I truly believed, one day, they’d appreciate our endurance, our love.
When they went to university, the expenses only grew. There were dormitory fees, supplies, groceries. Again, we tightened our belts. I scraped together every last pound to send them care packages. Victor and I lived for one thing—to make their lives easier.
One after the other, both daughters married. Happiness, but short-lived. Within months, they announced they were expecting. At first, I wept for joy—then, soon after, from fear. *Who will look after the children when they go back to work?* The girls insisted the babies were too young for nursery and turned to me—their mother—for help.
I’d already retired by then but took shifts as a cleaner at the chemist’s. Victor and I talked it over—he vowed to keep working while I cared for our grandchildren. And so, the cycle began again: nappies, coughs, cartoons, sleepless nights.
Years passed. Their husbands built their own businesses, started earning well. We were happy for them—family, after all. And when we occasionally slipped them extra for groceries? Well, we were used to it.
Then came the unthinkable. Victor left for work one morning and never came home. A heart attack, right outside the factory gates. The ambulance arrived swiftly, but it was too late. My rock, my love—gone. Forty-two years together, and now silence. The world turned grey.
The girls wept, of course. They stood by me at the funeral. Then they took the grandchildren home and said, *Mum, they’re old enough for nursery now. Thank you—you can rest.*
And just like that, I was alone. The flat felt hollow—no Victor’s laugh, no little feet running about. Reality set in: my pension wouldn’t cover rent, food, medicine. There was never enough. I bore it in silence.
Then, during one of their rare visits, I finally hinted: *Girls, if you could help a little with the bills, I might afford my prescriptions.*
My eldest didn’t hesitate. *Mum, really? We’re barely getting by ourselves!*
The younger one stayed quiet, eyes fixed on her phone.
After that, the calls stopped. The visits ceased. As though I’d committed a sin by asking.
And all I can wonder is—did I deserve this? Was a lifetime of sacrifice worth this emptiness? Do they even remember the love we poured into them?
Some days, I still hope. But each dawn without them is another wound. Was this what we lived for? Is this all that’s left of gratitude?
